Last Night a Beagle Saved My Life
How a puppy farm mutt interrupted my suicide, followed me across the globe, and became my greatest teacher
“Grief is just love with no place to go”.
— Jamie Anderson
I found Macy at what I learned to be a puppy farm in an anonymous sea of grey houses amidst the urban sprawl of north-west England’s Greater Manchester. It was early in 2013 when I visited the unkempt house. I remember entering the lounge with trepidation, realising the so-called “breeder” had been far from honest.
Eight or nine puppies were in the corner of the room, all huddled around the side of a cruddy cream sofa long past its sit-by date. Seemingly spoilt for choice as the super cute welcoming wave of tri-colour and lemon beagle pups all scarpered towards me, one of them stood out — the runt. As the others bullishly rushed to the front of the pack to be the first to greet me, the little one shyly held back, staring inquiringly. It was almost as if she already knew me.
As she tentatively shuffled my way, I did the same — cautiously parting the sea of eager fluff-muffins and providing nonchalant head pats to the others until Macy and I stood toe to toe. The moment I picked her up and brought her face close to mine — feeling the tiny, cold, wet…
